


Sansanvi

by alleyesonthehindenburg



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 09:34:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19270561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alleyesonthehindenburg/pseuds/alleyesonthehindenburg
Summary: being an account of the events leading up to and immediately after the world's first meteor shower





	Sansanvi

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flootzavut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flootzavut/gifts).



> for floot, who is wonderful and also an enabler
> 
> if you'd like to yell about Good Omens with me, you can find me on tumblr at all-eyes-on-the-hindenburg

Her name is Sansanvi, and she is a chinchilla.

Aziraphale isn’t sure what a chinchilla _is_ , exactly, except that Sansanvi is one. She’s small and silky, and rather cute, he thinks. Sansanvi doesn’t agree. She prefers to be called ferocious.

It’s quite an exciting time, really, with God creating all of these new creatures. For every success, She bestows one of Her creations on an angel. “This is your dæmon,” She tells them, “your life’s companion. It will do your bidding and be beside you in all things.”[1]

He’s not so sure about all that. Aziraphale doesn’t really have any _bidding_ , as far as he knows, and he rather fancies his alone time. But it works out alright in the end. Sansanvi makes for delightful conversation, and gladly makes herself scarce, sometimes for days[2] on end. She seems to enjoy exploring Heaven on her own. She seems to enjoy doing a lot of things on her own.

Other angels don’t approve. Michael calls him permissive, her own goat dæmon trotting along behind her at all times. Aziraphale merely shrugs it away, pointing out that until this gar-den thing is built, it’s not like he has any work to do. Let her have fun, he says.

Dæmons aren’t here to have fun, Michael replies.

* * *

“Watch this,” Sansanvi says to him one day, and then she’s no longer a chinchilla. She’s an angel, weathered and graceful, with silky silver wings to match her silky silver hair.

“Oh my,” Aziraphale breathes. “Oh dear.”

Sansanvi offers him a smile, brilliant and mischievous, and then she’s back again, in the shape that God gave her. Still, the air of satisfaction remains. She preens, picking nonexistent dust out of her tail fur as he gawks.

“Oh my,” Aziraphale repeats faintly. “That’s going to get you in trouble.”

* * *

As God’s creative fervour slows, so too does the influx of dæmons. Near every angel in Heaven has one now, and there are rules, though Aziraphale’s not quite clear on where – or who – they came from. No dæmon can speak to an angel other than their own. No dæmon can take orders from an angel other than their own.

This is not terribly unusual; Heaven likes rules. But Aziraphale has a sneaking suspicion that these rules exist because many angels are not quite comfortable with their dæmons. They could never say as much, for to do so would be to spurn the gifts of God, but he can see it in the way they talk about their dæmons, the way they look at them. It’s all rather baffling to Aziraphale himself, for he can’t imagine ever being uncomfortable around Sansanvi.

“You’re lenient with me,” she tells him one evening. She’s taken to wearing her angelic form when they are alone, and he can’t find it in himself to protest. “Most angels do not let their dæmons stray so far, nor speak so freely.”

“It’s not lenience,” Aziraphale says. He’s quite troubled, and wishes he had something to divide his attention from the conversation at hand. Something to make the difficult thoughts go down smoother. Perhaps he could invent such a thing. “I merely treat you as an equal. You are not a child to be minded.”[3]

“I was created to serve you.” Her gaze is inscrutable, and Aziraphale frowns. Her eyes are no less intelligent in her chinchilla form, but like this, they are more difficult to ignore, somehow. “I was made to do your bidding. To be beside you in all things, and slightly behind.”

“Well,” Aziraphale says. There’s nothing else _to_ say.

* * *

He’s right, it turns out, about angelic forms being trouble.

Usually when he collides with someone, it’s his own fault, nose buried in a text, but this time he rather thinks they’re both to blame. The stranger had been stood in the centre of the plaza, staring straight up, as if entranced by the sight of celestial light. “Oh, my apologies,” Aziraphale says. “Are you quite alright?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” the stranger says, turning his gaze on Aziraphale. His eyes are big and brown, deeply curious. “It’s funny, isn’t it? All the colours.”

“The colours,” Aziraphale repeats, baffled.

There’s no chance for further explanation, as he hears a shout, and another angel comes bustling across the plaza to them. Aziraphale vaguely recognises this one, a healer under Raphael. “Hi,” he says, smile strained as he reaches out to take the stranger’s hand. “What are you doing?”

Those brown eyes never stop scanning the buildings around them as they leave the plaza, as if he’s never seen such things before. It bothers Aziraphale all day, and the next time he sees Sansanvi, he mentions it.

She pauses, hands stilled in her hair. “He said colours, specifically?”

“Yes. All quite odd, I thought.”

“The creatures God made,” she says, returning to her braiding almost absent-mindedly, “do not all see the same. I don’t see blues, when I’m in my other form. It’s just… duller.”

It takes Aziraphale a moment to realise what she’s saying. “Are you – I spoke to a dæmon? That’s against the rules!”

“It sounds like he didn’t mind.”

“Yes, but…” Aziraphale sputters, grasping for something out of his reach. “We have the rules for a _reason_.”

“I’m sure his angel will see to it that he’s punished,” Sansanvi says dispassionately.

She’s right, of course. Aziraphale doesn’t find this as reassuring as he ought to.

* * *

Things escalate. Later on, Aziraphale will learn that this is not unusual, and that things have a tendency to escalate; but this is the first time, and it’s rather alarming. It starts with discontent. Dæmons are chafing under their limitations, and angels are tired of having to see to it that the rules are followed all the time. The Archangel Zadkiel openly protests the strict rules, along with his dæmon, a striking lioness. Sansanvi spends more and more time away from Aziraphale, though she never tells him why. Plausible deniability. He’s truly, shamefully grateful.

She only asks once. He’s just come out of a meeting with Gabriel and Michael; the Garden is being built, and it won’t be long now before he’s called upon. Sansanvi stands waiting for him, silver wings held proudly behind her. She doesn’t say anything; she doesn’t need to. Gabriel and Michael are watching, and a sword hangs heavy from Aziraphale’s belt. He shakes his head, and turns away.

That’s the last time he sees her.

* * *

He feels it when she Falls, cast out of heaven along with the rest of the dæmons. It’s a sharp pain in his chest, and then nothing, as if she were never even there.

* * *

The humans are next. God has perfected them, seen to every detail Herself. Their dæmons are manifestations of their souls, bound to them irrevocably. There will be no wandering, no wondering. No rebelling.

Eve’s dæmon is a slender mongoose, clever and golden-furred.

* * *

His name is Crawly, and he is a snake.

This wasn’t always his name; it used to be something divine, a gift from God Herself. But he Fell, and this is the price he pays for freedom.

When he finally clambers to his feet – in his angelic form, though perhaps that isn’t so accurate a title anymore – he finds himself assisted by another of his kind. Her hair is charred at the ends, but brilliantly silver, and she seems unshaken as she helps him rise. Around them, others are waking, wailing. There is something missing, Crawly thinks, an empty space inside of him that didn’t use to be there.

“Come to me,” someone calls. Crawly looks around, can just spy Lucifer through the smog. His silhouette is strange, goat’s horns rising from the curls atop his head. “Come to me!”

“Come on,” whispers the silver demon. She offers him a small smile, and they stumble forward, unsteady on their feet.

This is the price of freedom, Crawly thinks. Oh, he hopes it’s worth it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [1] Actually, God doesn’t say any of this. The Metatron does, and they are the Voice of God, so it’s all the same thing, really, except in that it very much isn’t.[return to text]
> 
> [2] Metaphysically speaking, of course, since days haven’t quite been invented yet.[return to text]
> 
> [3] Childhood technically hasn’t been created yet either, but God has plans and She is quite excited about them.[return to text]


End file.
